


evermore.

by WinterfellsDaughter13



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Album: evermore (Taylor Swift), Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, F/M, Forgiveness, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 23:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30130722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterfellsDaughter13/pseuds/WinterfellsDaughter13
Summary: He even wonders if she stands in their spot on the battlements and looks for a rider in black, but when he pictures it, it is wrong. Because, when he pictures her, her eyes shine with joy and something Jon dares not name.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	evermore.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, please be forgiving.  
> I will attempt to improve plotlines.. lol

He decides it in the middle of the night when he can hear them laughing and singing from his tent that is on the outskirts of the encampment. He decides it when their burnt meat on the fire makes him sick to his stomach. He decides it as he stares into the open expanse of endless winter as Tormund discusses trading with the North. He even decides it when Tormund hands him a scroll with perfect letters, pardoning him from exile. But, when he finally tells Tormund, his friend lets him go with a hug and a bittersweet smile.

It has only been a few moons turns when Jon realizes he can’t steal the solace he needs from the free folk, who are happily trying to build a new life together, but Ghost whines and patters about as he breaks down his tent and moves further North. 

He doesn’t stop walking until the wind is freezing his lungs with every breath and the scroll in his pocket now feels as heavy as Longclaw on his hip. He can barely feel his fingers as he tries to make quick work of the tent. Dehydrated, starving, and cold, he cannot do anything, but hold Ghost tight to his chest underneath sparse furs and wonder if he will make it through the storm. 

When he wakes up to the sun and hard bread from his pack, he doesn’t feel any joy. When he fills his belly with fresh water in a creek nearby, he feels as empty as before. Even the large pelt he claimed from a fallen elk does nothing to fill the cavernous cold in his chest. He still pulls Ghost to his chest at night to muster any semblance of warmth.

Fighting through the night is somehow worse than the day. On good nights, he falls asleep in the darkest skies and wakes only moments later to the bright dawn. On his bad nights, he dreams of a city made of ash, a goddess of death, blonde and surrounded by green wildfire. But, every moon or so, he has one tragic night, where he dreams of a leathery, black beast setting fire to his childhood home, melting Winterfell as if it were made of snow and ice. During those nights, he sends Ghost away, and lays on his mat, shivering and trying to forget the feeling of the fire’s heat from his face. 

The following days, he begs for Tormund to appear out of the snow, and drag him back or tell him that Winterfell still stands. It never happens. He wouldn’t deserve it. Even though Tormund happily took him north, enough of the free folk heard what happened in the south. He is sure that the stories are even worse than the reality, and the reality is so grim and bitter. One night, he replays the farce, trying to come to terms with it. Trying to figure out, which choice he chose wrong. It is this night, where the loneliness and emptiness are so insurmountable that he cannot stay still. Like a green boy, he kicks the stump that he uses for a chair and throws what little belongings and furs he has. Before stomping out the fire with his boot, he realizes a parchment has slipped out to the middle of the floor. He doesn’t need to turn it over to know that it is lined with perfect letters and a dire wolf seal. 

He rights his stump and dares to pick up the missive, only to let it rest in his hands as he makes no move forward. He could not return. He should at least tell her as much, but every scrap of parchment remains blank until it is discarded into the flames. He does this until the fire is simmering low and his lungs ache, sharp as ice. He lays down with Ghost beside him and tries to will the cold and pain away. 

Time is as short and infinite in these lands as the snow. Jon has lost track of the days for so long, he is not sure if he has been up here for only a few moons or years. The routine he keeps is simple and he moves without thought. It isn’t until he hears laughter in the woods that he snaps to reality. Ghost is hunting and he is unsure how many men could be here with him. Shaky hands reach for Longclaw, he hesitates before pulling it from its scabbard, and the weight feels uncomfortable. He waits for what feels like an eternity, and when the footsteps get closer, he chances a peek. 

It is only Tormund, and in Jon’s relief, he casts Longclaw down in the ice before Tormund gives him a bear hug. “Good thing you threw that sword down, Little Crow,” Tormund laughed, “You looked like a tree in the wind, not a man with a sword.” Jon somehow finds a chuckle, “There is nothing up here to fight.” 

“No, there is nothing to fight for,” Tormund becomes serious, “Come back, find a woman to fight over. I’m sure some spear wife will want you, you’re as pretty as one.” He cracks another thunderous laugh, but Jon deflects, “No free woman will want a kneeler.”

Tormund wraps an arm around his shoulders and brings him close, “Kneeling might help you in this fight. Like your sister and her little Lord.” His breath is knocked away, “My sister?”

“The little, stabby thing,” Tormund is brushing the snow off of himself now, “They were at the Crow Castle, looking for you. Said you were lost up North.” Jon is not surprised that Gendry would leave his hollow Lordship in the Stormlands and chase Arya across the globe. Tormund says he needs to take a piss, and have a drink. When they reach Jon’s camp, he starts a fire and Tormund offers him his leather flask. 

He loves Tormund not only for his warm energy but his ability to let Jon be quiet and lost in his own thoughts. He misses Arya terribly. She understood him without questioning, without arguing. His feelings must be written on his face because Tormund states that they looked well and happy.

“I am glad she is happy,” Jon sighs, “At least, someone got to be.” But whatever relief he is feeling is lost, as Tormund looks bewildered, then irritated. “What about you?” Tormund finally asks. “I am happy,” Jon states, but even the pronunciation feels wrong. “Right,” Tormund sarcastically poses, “Mance wasn’t wrong. You got the true North in ya, stubborn and cold as a crone, but you can’t lie to me, Snow.” What can he say to that? However, Tormund does not stop his assault.

“A spear wife wouldn’t have you, because you want castles and kneelers and a lady,” Tormund has stood up to give him a wrong scolding, “You could be happy. You are only here because some prickless soldier wanted your head. Little Red pardoned you.” Little Red? Now, the picture is in his head again. Her piercing, blue eyes under a weirwood of her similar complexion, making a vow she would break. Another betrayal ended with a dagger’s kiss.

After a pitiful silence, where Jon tries to catch his breath, he finally responds, “She betrayed me. Why would I go back?” His hurt is palpable, and instead of being crushed by the sheer weight of it, Tormund questions him, “And, kneeling to the Dragon Queen was not?” 

“We needed her,” Jon’s voice breaks on the last note. They linger in silence for a beat. Tormund nods solemnly, “I’m sorry, little crow. I didn’t come here to ruffle your feathers.” Tormund finally sits down again, but Jon can’t sit there. He makes some excuses about making water and leaves. He walks far enough away from the fire that the cold burns his fingers and feet, and he surrenders to the fact that he can never return. What she did burns hotter in his chest than any fire he’s built in this land of always winter. He loosens the fur around his neck and wonders if tonight is the night that death will finally show him mercy. 

But, Ghost shows up as silent as the wind and guides him back to the fire and Tormund, who doesn’t embarrass Jon by asking him where he went. He just presses the flask to him and lets the crackling fire between them lull. 

Tormund cannot stay long. As much as the free folk have no king, they need him to be there for them. While Jon understands, having another person around has felt like a reprieve, despite the torture it originally had been. When Tormund goes to leave, he gives him the same hug and smile as when Jon left and told him that he could always join him. 

But, whatever Jon was looking for wasn’t among the free folk, and he wasn’t sure if it even existed. Part of him knew Tormund was right, he wanted to be in the North amongst castles and kneelers, but it would never be any castle or kneeler. It would be Winterfell and his family. At first, he wonders if he could do it if he could forgive her and live at a comfortable distance from one another. His picture is filled with holes, like forcing jagged puzzle pieces together, and it leaves him feeling unsteady. It isn’t the distance he wants, he realizes. He wants something so dangerously close, like magnets forcing themselves together; like when she arrived on her dying horse at Castle Black. 

But, it could never be. His last arrival was met with a cold so fierce that made his new home feel like an ebbing of winter. For so long, he had only that picture of her: Harsh and swearing, despite her plotting behind his back. So, when he begins to remember the feeling of her pulled close to him and her cool skin against his lips, he is at a loss. He even wonders if she stands in their spot on the battlements and looks for a rider in black, but when he pictures it, it is wrong. Because, when he pictures her, her eyes shine with joy and something Jon dares not name. He resolves in it that, aye, he would forgive her the second he laid eyes on her, but could she forgive him? 

He isn’t sure. He grabs for the parchment, forcing himself to finally open it. It says nothing of warmth, only of his freedom. But, she calls him “Jon Snow of House Stark,” and he thinks that has to be enough. He remembers how she would talk slow, wrapping her lips around every word, like she was selecting each for the right tone and connotation. However, he cannot bring himself to break down his tent, because he may be returning if his gamble is for naught. So, he leaves it there and carries himself south. The congregation of free folk feels almost like a mirage in the snow, and when he fully reaches them Tormund is there with the strongest of hugs as if he knows that this may be the last time. He stays only a night, and when he departs, Tormund’s grim smile is lost and replaced with a wide, toothy grin. 

The horse that Tormund lends knows the way to the Wall well, but it does little to make the trip bearable. Jon realizes his hands are shaking the closer he gets to the Wall. He is afraid, and the anxiety hits him in waves. He can only be a few days away at worst, and he knows nothing but the way he feels. This moment is the precipice of his greatest salvation or damnation. When he reaches the gate, he sighs in relief that the gate is wide open for anyone. When he enters the yard, the men barely take notice they hurry to their whereabouts. Merchants and free folk alike have wagons filled with goods for trading. He sheds some of his outer furs and dismounts in awe of it. 

“Lord Snow,” an unfamiliar voice calls him from his stupor, “The Lord Commander gave orders to escort you to the King’s Tower.” “Aye,” Jon replies, “Escort me then.” He wants to smile at the changes, and he can feel his lips pull up at the edges. He looks forward to seeing his friend. Hopefully, he will help him find the words to say to her, the woman who brought a Northern army to save his head. They knock and a guard lets him in, but only a step in and Jon’s feet feel like lead welded to the floor.

“I hope you don’t mind,” She smiles, “Tormund sent a raven saying you were on your way here.” The iron crown and silver-blue gown do nothing to distract from her beauty and piercing eyes. As they rush towards one another’s embrace, Jon dares to label the look in their eyes as love.


End file.
